


May 19th - The Day Before

by grindeldore



Series: Ice and Fire [1]
Category: Harry Potter - J. K. Rowling
Genre: M/M
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2016-05-24
Updated: 2016-05-24
Packaged: 2018-06-10 10:50:18
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: No Archive Warnings Apply
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,952
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/6953590
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/grindeldore/pseuds/grindeldore
Summary: <blockquote class="userstuff">
              <p>What happened that summer in Godric's Hollow after Kendra Dumbledore died and Albus met Gellert. "It takes a great deal of bravery to stand up to our enemies, but just as much to stand up to our friends." Set during HBP and 1898</p>
            </blockquote>





	May 19th - The Day Before

Dumbledore strolled slowly around his office before coming to a stop before the stone pensieve against the wall on the right. Gazing into its brightly coloured depths, he inhaled slowly, letting the calm blue colours sink into him. He reached into his robes’ pockets for his wand, wincing slightly when his frail right hand curled around it, and he pushed it slowly into the basin. The memories danced around the elder wood like tantalizing tendrils of smoke before slipping away with the current provided by the stirring wood. The elderly wizard pulled his wand out, dragging with it a luminous ribbon: a memory. He watched as it sleepily wafted through the air, before sinking into the pensieve again. Then, Dumbledore leant down and put his face into the liquid and was transported into a smoky landscape he knew too well. 

\------

A young man, only about 18 years old, strolled thoughtfully down the leafy dirt road leading to a white farmhouse which stood alone in the area, standing proud against the crop fields and animal pastures that surrounded most of the rural village. He had brown hair, neatly combed with a parting on the left of his handsomely-crafted face. His blue eyes twinkled in the dim light of the dusk, emitting an aura of intelligence and wit. The man was, of course, Albus Percival Wulfric Brian Dumbledore fresh from leaving Hogwarts School of Witchcraft and Wizardry, having obtained stellar exam results in his NEWTS, to no one’s surprise, and had been looking forward to a lifetime of adventure. 

That was until his mother had died in a freak accident that left Elphias Doge travelling the world alone, and left Albus himself staying at home, caring for his younger brother, Aberforth, and his ill sister, Ariana. This was not, of course, the future Albus had envisioned for himself, but was his duty nevertheless. As the eldest member of the Dumbledore family, he had a direct responsibility to care for his siblings to the best of his ability, and ensure that Aberforth not drop out of school against his mother’s wishes. 

Kicking a dirty pebble off into the long grass lining the road, Albus began to jog the last dozen metres until he reached the front door of the aging house. From a distance, it still looked like the manor it once was, but now the paint was peeling and the wood was rotting. Whilst Albus could, of course, have fixed the exterior in a heartbeat and with a wave of his wand, there was something familiar and oddly comforting about the house that Albus had not the will to remove. 

He opened the front door, the hinges creaking loudly as he did so, and ventured into the dark interior. Sighing quietly, he flicked his wand towards the hall fireplace and flames burst from the pile of logs erected in it, the light dancing out across the floorboards. With another lazy wave, the lamps lining the long corridor leading to the rest of the house began to flame as well, the candles inside burning brightly enough to illuminate the high ceilings. 

A floorboard creaked from his right and Albus turned. Standing there in his torn and dirty shorts and shirt stood his fifteen year old brother. Glancing down, Albus tutted condescendingly. 

“Put some shoes on, Aberforth,” he ordered, not raising his voice unnecessarily. 

His brother glared at him for a few moments before turning back into the kitchen and disappearing into the darkness within. Albus, once again, sighed deeply, and flicked his wand towards the kitchen fireplace and the candles on the chandelier hanging from the kitchen ceiling. They burst into life and Albus approached them, only briefly looking at the unwashed pots left by the marble basin. 

“Must we live in a house with no light?” Albus called out, expecting no reply, though he did receive one. 

“She likes it that way, Albus,” his brother answered from somewhere within the depths of the house. 

“Perhaps if she actually did venture out of her bedroom one day, I may be in a more reasonable position to compromise. Until that day, however, just because she lives in perpetual night-time does not mean the rest of us have to.” His strong, sweet voice bounced around the empty halls before fading into nothingness. The man remained still for a few moments before starting work on cleaning the pots with yet another flourish of his wand.

Gazing through the stone archway into the dining room, Albus’ eyes skimmed over the piles of books crammed onto the long dining table, made from the same aged mahogany as the rest of the house’s furniture. The early Dumbledores had clearly been a fan of the wood, but Albus, like his mother, was not too fond of it. The heavy volumes were stacked higher than Albus, and occasionally, when he dared try, he needed a chair to reach the uppermost books. Most of the dusty covers had titles relating to the use of magic, such as “Advanced Conjuring” and “Potions: Volume 8”, but there was evidence of some muggle works, such as Shakespeare and fascinating novels by the recently published Arthur Conan Doyle, about a fascinating character who solved crimes through sheer intelligence, a feat about which Albus was naturally curious. 

The pots fell with a clang to the stone surface of the counters and began to dry, waking Albus from his musings. 

“Aberforth!” he yelled, and then listened to hear the boy come in from whichever corner he was lurking in. 

“Yes, Albus?” his brother replied, his contempt veiled thinly, though the elder brother chose to ignore this. 

“You need to make dinner,” said Albus, “I bought some bread and some apples earlier today. They are in the pantry.”

“What are we going to eat with bread and apples?” Aberforth asked, a confused expression briefly replacing his scowl. 

“I don’t know, Aberforth, work it out. I need to study, so don’t disturb me for a few hours.”

“I thought we were having dinner,” Aberforth said, “Aren’t you going to eat?” 

“No, not tonight. I really need to get some work done,” Albus replied, whilst turning and walking out the doorway through which he had entered.

The man walked up both flights of stairs to the narrow landing on the third level of the old house. Bookshelves lined the wall here, with two rickety chairs squeezed between them, and the only spaces on the walls were filled with small windows, letting in just enough of the sunset for Albus to be able to find his way. He opened the door at the end of the short corridor, behind which was a small bathroom with just a basin and a bathtub. The room was dimly lit, with all light being blocked out by the thick layer of ivy growing over the small window opposite him. 

Taking no note of the poor conditions in which he lived, Albus opened up the final door through the bathroom and reached his bedroom. Albus’ living quarters were cramped, more so than they had been at Hogwarts, and although he had the option to move downstairs to the larger bedroom, or even his parents’ bedroom, neither of these choices were ones that Albus had even considered for a moment. He was happiest in this dark little room, and his family knew it. The walls were filled with centuries old books, monstrous, dusty old things that Albus had picked up over the years from his travels to various towns and cities across England and Scotland. A small bed was jammed into an awkward space by the solitary window, which faced over the back garden, and from which Albus could, if he so wanted to, glimpse the fading sunset. A desk could be found if you looked between the two largest bookshelves and excavated it from the mountain of parchment covering it, all of which contained Albus’ own private musings on various spells, potions, or magical organisms (his thoughts on complex summoning charms were widely thought to be some of the most impressive work done by a sixth year in centuries, but this too was lost in the heaving mass). At the end of the long, thin room stood a small fireplace, at which Albus twirled his wand and a fire burst into life, illuminating the room and making shadows dance along the ceilings like an exotic festival in the Americas. The last item of note in the room, besides the venomous tentacula plant flailing by the biography of Merlin, was a large birdcage, in which stood a neatly presented barn owl by the name of Rowena. 

Albus picked up a copy of “The Complex Nature of Explosive Charms” by E. F. Babbleworth, threw himself down on the bed and began reading Chapter Nine (“Confringo: Magic or Menace?”). Two floors below him, Albus could dimly hear the sounds of Aberforth cluttering around the kitchen, cursing loudly to himself as he opened cupboards and copper pans or jars of jam fell out. Rowena hooted softly in her cage, gazing at her master with longing in her dark eyes, and Albus, throwing down his book, went to her cage and put his thin index finger through the bars, watching as she nibbled his skin softly. His left hand then opened the cage door and the owl hopped out onto a teetering tower of books, spreading her wings widely to steady herself. Albus went to the window and wrenched it open, listening to the centuries-old hinges groan in protest. The cool summer breeze slipped into the room, disturbing the thick dust covering some of the older books, and Rowena fluttered to the ledge where she looked out before disappearing into the dusk. 

Albus watched the bird soar across the garden and into the dense forest at the edge of the pasture, where several brown goats grazed, before returning to his book. Charms had always been of interest to Albus, and he especially enjoyed learning about the finer points of their use, which he was quick to master and display to his awe-struck friends, of which the number was dwindling. His parents had naturally basked in the reflected glory that their son brought onto their family, but his brother had been less enthusiastic in his praise and in his appreciation of his elder brother. He was under the impression that Albus was only in it for himself, and to acquire more power and more fame, but that was simply untrue. All Albus wanted, all he had ever wanted, was to learn, and to share his findings with others to improve the wizarding community for all. He had no political ambitions, nor dictatorial impulses, but this did nothing to quell Aberforth’s concerns, who seemed content with caring for his sister without the fame that being a Dumbledore brought. 

There was a knock on the bedroom door, followed by the sound of footsteps quickly retreating and Albus, once again, rested the book on the bed with his wand serving as a bookmark, and opened the door to find no one there. Before closing it, however, he caught sight of the small plate holding a variety of cheeses and fruits along with a slice of buttered bread which rested on the side of the sink. Smiling softly to himself, Albus retrieved the food which, although meagre in portion size, was a delightful and unexpected treat, and once again retreated into the darkness of his bedroom. 

\------

The scene collapsed in black smoke and Dumbledore pulled his face out of the pensieve, sighing sadly. The date of the memory he remembered vividly: the 19th of May, 1898. The day before the meeting that would change his life, and history, forever.


End file.
